Every Last Beat

by Nicole S. Goodin

  “Seriously, Luce, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now put it on,” she demands, glancing at her watch as she speaks, giving me a clear indication that I need to hurry up.

  “Brown ankle boots,” she hollers after me as I rush into my walk-in closet.

  I emerge wearing the correct items of clothing and Lucy sighs in satisfaction.

  “Perfect.”

  ***

  “Promise you’ll be right next door?” I plead with Lucy and Emmett as we pull up outside the restaurant.

  “I swear on my life,” Lucy replies. “Now get out of the car and stop being such a chicken shit.”

  I’ve insisted they wait until either one of two things happen – one; I bail and need them to get me the hell out of there, or two; I hit it off with this guy and find my own way home.

  I don’t even feel bad about hijacking their evening for my own benefit – the two of them got me into this mess, it’s the least they can do as far as I’m concerned.

  “He’s a good guy, Vi,” Emmett reassures me in a manner far nicer than his hormonal wife.

  “Okay, I can do this,” I reply in a less than convincing tone.

  “C’mon, woman, you’ve literally survived dying, and yet you’re scared of a date?”

  Lucy’s right.

  I know she’s right, but that doesn’t stop the heart that still feels foreign to me from beating erratically in my chest at the very thought of getting out of this car and walking inside.

  “I can do this.” I’m slightly steadier sounding this time so I open the door and step out while I’m still able to find the courage to go through with it.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Rylan

  I know that running late for a date isn’t going to be the best first impression I’ve ever made, but I’ve got a pretty good excuse, and if the woman I’m meeting tonight doesn’t understand that, then it was never going to work out anyway.

  My job can be demanding, and I’m well aware that it’s probably what’s kept me from having any type of meaningful relationships with women thus far. That, and the lingering feeling something’s missing whenever I’m in the presence of other people.

  Ever since my sister passed away, I’m left constantly feeling like a piece of me is incomplete.

  I’ve met nice women, but nothing ever feels as right as I know it should – so for years I never felt compelled to invite anybody new into my life.

  I’m not expecting to walk into this restaurant tonight and find the solution to that problem, but a guy can dream.

  I hear the tone indicating I have a text message as I throw myself into the driver’s seat of my car. I stop at a red light and pull out my cell. I shake my head at the picture message I’ve just received from Emmett.

  Emmett and I work together at the hospital, and with a bit of luck I’ll be delivering his baby within the next two months.

  He and his wife Lucy – they’re the ones responsible for this set up tonight.

  Emmett’s sent me a picture of a woman I assume is Violet – my company for the evening. I can’t see her face, and if I had to guess I’d say he took the picture of her as she walked towards the date I’m currently running late for.

  The light turns green and I speed up a little; the thought of her sitting alone at a table is making me feel guilty.

  After what feels like an eternity, I pull up outside and I must have some type of luck after all because there’s a park right outside.

  I take a deep breath before pushing the door open and jogging to the front of the restaurant.

  Thanks to Emmett I know I’m looking for a woman with long dark hair, and a blue dress.

  I’m glancing around as I give my name to the woman behind the desk and she points Violet out at the same moment that my eyes find her.

  She doesn’t look around as I approach from behind, and I still can’t see her face.

  I clear my throat in an attempt not to startle her, but still she jumps a fraction in her seat.

  She turns slowly to face me and it’s all I can do not to gasp as I see her face for the first time.

  She’s so beautiful, but not only that, she’s oddly familiar.

  I’m certain we’ve never met, but I feel drawn to her, like souls rekindling.

  “Violet?” I question her, my voice sounding not at all like my own.

  She looks at me as though she’s seeing a ghost and her face pales visibly.

  The doctor in me takes over.

  “Are you okay?” I reach for her elbow on instinct; I’m worried that she’s going to pass out, but for now at least she seems to be holding steady.

  She’s just staring at me in obvious shock.

  She’s caught up inside her own head right now, and I know that I won’t reach her, no matter what I say. So I don’t say anything, instead I crouch down next to her and wait.

  It takes a full minute until she blinks once, twice, three times, before giving her head a little shake to clear it.

  “Violet?” I repeat.

  She reaches for her glass and takes a quick sip.

  “I’m so sorry,” she breathes as she sets it back down. “You gave me a fright. Rylan?” she questions me back, her eyes lingering on my face for a moment before trailing down my shoulder and arm to where my hand is still touching her.

  I let her go hurriedly, as though I’m a teenager being caught doing the wrong thing.

  “That’s me,” I tell her with a smile.

  Her eyes are on my face again, as mine are on hers, and I watch in silent appreciation as her lips curve up to mirror mine.

  An overwhelming sense of calm that I haven’t felt in years settles over me, and I decide that now would be a good time for me to sit down.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Violet

  I would have known those eyes anywhere – I’ve dreamed about them nearly every night since I was twenty-one years old.

  Three years ago, when I looked into them for the very first time in real life, it had shocked me beyond belief.

  Much like right now.

  He’s saying my name and it’s just like in my vision.

  I can’t breathe.

  I don’t know who this man is, but I know he means something to me.

  He’s literally the man of my dreams and that scares me half to death.

  I know nothing about him, but he’s here, saying my name and touching my arm and I still can’t breathe.

  “Are you okay?” he asks me, and I can hear the obvious concern in his voice.

  ‘No, I’m not okay at all’ I want to scream, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out.

  I can feel the anxiety clawing its way out of me and I know I only have seconds to get it under control.

  I think of the technique one of my doctors taught me when I was younger.

  Five, four, three, two, one…

  I need to concentrate on five things I can see, four things I can touch, three things I can hear, two things I can smell and one thing I can taste.

  Five… I can see him, the table, the waiter taking orders, cars on the street, my bag on the seat.

  Four… I can touch him, the seat, the floor and the tablecloth.

  Three… I can hear him saying my name, the people at the next table talking and the hum of energy from the kitchen.

  Two… I can smell him, and garlic bread, and honestly, I’m not sure which smells better.

  I can feel my breathing settling now as my body becomes more grounded and calm.

  One… I can taste… my eyes immediately dart to his lips, but I grab my glass of orange juice before I do something stupid.

  “I’m so sorry,” I finally say as I put my glass back on the table. “You gave me a fright.”

  I look up and he’s still watching me carefully.

  “Rylan?” I ask, even though it’s obviously him.

  “That’s me,” he replies, his face lighting up with a smile so beautiful it actually p
ains me to look at it.

  I find myself smiling back at him; like I don’t even have a choice in the matter.

  It’s not lost on me that all five of my senses were drawn to him first and foremost, and considering I don’t know him in the slightest, that’s an unexpected revelation.

  He sits opposite me and I’m overcome with a feeling that maybe my life is only just beginning right in this very moment.

  ***

  “And that’s why I was late,” he replies with a shrug, only now getting around to explaining why he’d kept me waiting.

  “You’re an obstetrician?” I ask, surprise clearly colouring my voice.

  We’ve been talking for over half an hour, and so far, I’ve managed to keep myself from asking him how or why it is that he frequents my dreams at night.

  I’ve also managed not to freak out and panic again, but the more he talks the more I get a feeling of déjà vu that I can’t explain.

  He nods and smiles, acknowledging that it’s somewhat of an unexpected field of medicine for him to be in.

  He looks like a real man’s man – not someone that looks at women’s private parts all day, while periodically delivering little bundles of joy.

  His shoulders are broad and strong, his golden skin is freckled from time spent in the sun and his hair is as dark as the night sky.

  If I didn’t already know he worked in the hospital, and someone had told me to guess, I would have gone with something like a builder or a farmer – something that required him to have strong, rugged hands.

  He’s tall and lean – he’s very obviously physically fit, and I know I really need to stop looking at him.

  “You got it, I’m an obstetrician,” he confirms with a shrug.

  “And you were delivering a baby…” I repeat his words back to him, still not quite believing.

  He chuckles and the sound is warm and comforting.

  I smile at him while I watch the curve of his mouth as the laughter falls from his lips.

  “She came early. We weren’t expecting her until next week, but really, at this point I should know better than to expect a baby to come on its due date.”

  “Did you know Emmett and Lucy are having a baby?”

  He points to himself. “Who do you think is delivering it?”

  I gape at him. “Seriously?”

  He nods his head proudly.

  “Wow… you must be good. You should have seen how long it took her to decide on a car seat. I can’t even imagine the process she went through to pick a doctor… did she bring you in for a formal sit-down interview?”

  He grins, and once again the breath is stolen from my lungs.

  “I know you’re joking, but you’re actually not far off.”

  A realisation I’d previously missed appears front and centre in my mind.

  “Hold the phone, so she knows you? That sneaky little she-devil gave me the distinct impression she didn’t know you.”

  My eyes are narrowed now, and my finger is pointed at him in an incredibly accusing manner.

  “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.” He holds his hands up in surrender.

  I make a pretend shooting motion with my finger, and he laughs – really laughs for the first time tonight.

  It’s a perfect sound and I’m already wishing I was funnier so I could say something that would let me hear it again.

  “I can’t believe she played me like that.” I scowl half-heartedly.

  He looks right into my eyes. His stare is strong and unwavering, and I almost shudder under the weight of it.

  “Did she choose wrong?” he asks seriously.

  I hold his gaze and shake my head, one small little movement that he doesn’t miss.

  She chose good – really good.

  He’s interesting, kind, funny, and somehow, manages to pull off this intense thing he has going, all the while looking like an absolute dream.

  But the thing is, I’m not sure that Lucy and Emmett chose him at all.

  I’m forced to think, that after nearly four years of dreaming of the deep blue eyes that are now focused on my face, watching me carefully, that perhaps this meeting was just meant to be.

  I’ve never been a big believer in fate, because then I’d have to accept the fact that someone, somewhere deemed it my fate to suffer when others don’t, but after spending tonight in his magnetising presence, I might have to rethink my views on the world.

  “Well… good then,” he replies, reminding me where I am and who I’m with, even though my eyes haven’t left his for a moment.

  The sight of him in my mind has become a sense of calm for me, a comfort even… and I hope to God that I’m reflecting my behaviour in a way that is appropriate for two strangers meeting, rather than someone greeting a familiar memory.

  “Tell me something about you.”

  I refrain from groaning in response to his request.

  I absolutely hate talking about myself. I despised the first day of school every year; the one where you had to stand up in class and tell the group a fun fact about yourself.

  I would literally rather stick pins in my eyes than tell another ‘fun fact’.

  There’s very little to tell about me that isn’t going to get me that look. The look of sympathy.

  I loathe the look of sympathy.

  I don’t want people to feel sorry for me, I want them to accept me for who I am and not what I’ve been through. I don’t want to become my condition, but sometimes I fear I’ve done exactly that.

  “What do you do for work?” he prompts when I don’t reply.

  I smile at the question because that is one I can answer – even if it’s not with total honesty. Technically, I don’t work – I volunteer, but he doesn’t need to know that just yet.

  “I work at an animal shelter.”

  His eyebrows raise in surprise. “That might be as rewarding as delivering babies.”

  “I actually helped deliver a whole litter just last week,” I brag.

  “Well then, here’s to new life.” He picks up his glass and holds it up to me.

  I reach for my glass and clink it gently against his, repeating his sentiment back to him.

  I spend the entire time it takes for our mains to arrive talking about the shelter and the quirky animals that come through, and he’s either an excellent actor, or he’s genuinely interested because he asks me questions the entire time.

  I get to hear him laugh again and my insides feel all fuzzy and warm.

  We eat in a comfortable silence and I’m aware that he’s watching me as closely as I’m watching him.

  I’ve already learned that he’s the kind of person that eats each element on his plate separately, not starting the next type of food until the last one is finished. He’s methodical even in his eating habits.

  I, on the other hand, am quite the opposite, I eat a little piece of this, then that, then this again. It’s the unrestrained artist coming out in me I think.

  “I paint,” I blurt the words out before I even consider the implication of them.

  I only paint for me, and the reason I don’t tell people about it is because the first thing they ask is if they can see my work.

  He’s watching me again – honestly, I’m not sure he ever stopped, and I can almost feel him rummaging around in my thoughts – like he somehow understands that even though I brought the topic up, I’m not entirely sure I actually want to talk about it.

  “What do you paint?” he asks cautiously after a moment of silence.

  I fiddle nervously with the gold ring that I wear on a chain around my neck.

  “My feelings, my thoughts…” I shrug. “Whatever comes to me.”

  He nods for more than a few seconds, like he’s processing the information.

  “I bet they’re incredible.”

  I wait for it – the ‘I’d really like to see them sometime’, but it doesn’t come; he simply picks up his glass and takes another sip.

  “That’s a beauti
ful ring.” He tilts his head in the direction of the ring I’m still playing with and I’m taken by surprise – he’s as observant as he is intense.

  I bring it up to my face so I can study it, as though maybe I’ve forgotten what it looks like all of a sudden.

  “It was my aunt’s. She gave it to me before she passed away.”

  And there I go again… speaking before I think, but much like before, he doesn’t ask me questions that I don’t want to answer.

  “It matches your eyes beautifully,” he simply replies.

  I can feel myself blushing again. Even though he didn’t technically give me a compliment, it still feels like one.

  It does match my eyes – that’s why she gave it to me. My Aunt Rita was more like a grandmother to me growing up, she was fifteen years older than my mother, and their parents – my grandparents, were both gone by the time I was born.

  She was an absolute loon and I loved her dearly.

  She lived long enough to see me get my new heart, and then she was gone, leaving behind a longing ache in my chest, the most wonderful memories, and a trail of wealth that gave my entire family more than we ever thought we’d have.

  “You loved her.” He’s not asking a question, but merely reading my expression and stating a fact – it seems to be a skill of his.

  We might not eat the same way, but we both appear to share the talent of reading people.

  “I loved her very much. She was kind, kooky and very generous.”

  When she passed away, she left me the home I now live in along with a small fortune that will ensure I never want for a single thing. Auggie and Charlie have one each too.

  She’s the reason I can spend my time painting and volunteering without having to worry about how I’m going to pay the bills.

  None of us had any idea that Rita was so well off, or that when she died, she’d leave everything to the five of us. She never had any children of her own, so my parents, my siblings and I, we were it for her.